


nothing comes close

by bee1103



Series: game of thrones [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, oblivious narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee1103/pseuds/bee1103
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is tired of being the only doctor who Jon treats differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing comes close

**Author's Note:**

> I was blown away by the response I got for my Jonsa/HP AU, and I've been dying to write for these two again. Four or five false starts later and I don't really know where this came from, but I was definitely semi-inspired by a scene from "Chicago Med." This - as with everything else I write - is un-beta'd, so forgive any mistakes you might find.

_Beep. Beep._

The heart monitor dings, steadily, and it’s a glorious sound. She ought to be relieved; ought to be smiling in the face of bringing a man back from the brink of death. But she’s too furious to even be grateful. She glares across the room, eyes hot and sparking angrily.

“ _Dr. Snow_ ,” she grits out between her teeth, “might I speak to you a moment?”

It’s not a request and she’s glad he doesn’t see it as one. It’s all she can do to keep from shouting at him in the middle of Trauma, but she manages to stalk into the staff lounge with her fist clenched tightly in rage. It’s mercifully empty, though she’s not sure it would have mattered much to her anyway.

He might be the best bloody trauma surgeon in this hospital but that doesn’t mean he gets to talk to her like _that_.

The moment she hears the door close behind him, she whirls, poking him hard in the chest, “ _Why_ do you always do that?”

He blinks, confused, “Do what?”

 _Do what_? As if he has no idea the things he does, or says. One minute he’s Jon – sweet, quiet, patient Jon, who lets her sob in his arms when she loses a patient, and doesn’t even seem to mind when she gets snot all over his scrubs; who runs his hand over the top of her head and swears that it will be okay again soon. And the next, he’s Dr. Snow – who shouts at her like she’s a first-year intern and knows nothing about medicine, even when what he wants to do is risky and dangerous and might make it worse.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” she snaps.

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. When he looks back at her, his eyes are apologetic, “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I shouldn’t have.”

Her laugh is bitter, “You think I’m angry because you _yelled_ at me?”

Of course he would think that’s all was it. Because he thinks she’s still that same foolish child he knew when they were little, who didn’t like getting dirt on her party dresses and who threw a tantrum because someone had pulled her on braid.

Jon frowns again, “Well –"

“I don’t care that you shouted at me, but I am bloody _sick_ of you treating me differently than everyone else! You do it all the time! You ask my opinion and then _completely_ ignore me; or drop in on my patients when I didn’t ask for, or _need_ , a consult! It’s like you don’t think I can do this job! You don’t do that with anyone else, _so why me_?”

Her breath is ragged and she’s certain her cheeks are pinked in anger – one of the downfalls of being a redhead – but Jon is just standing there, staring at her. For a moment, it looks as though he’s never seen her before; as if he’s opened his eyes and found her standing there, some new, unfamiliar creature.

She expects him to argue, to deny it, to swear that she’s wrong, that he treats her the same way he treats any of them. Maybe she just _wants_ him to do those things. She’s been ready for this fight, feeling it ever so deeply the last few weeks. But he doesn’t fight back. He just stands there, silent.

She rolls her eyes. Of course he stays quiet. That’s what Jon does: he broods. _Well, screw him_ , she thinks sourly. She shakes her head in disgust, moves to step past him, to leave him behind in this damn staff lounge and go find someone who actually cares.

But he catches her arm at the elbow, holds her tight for an instant, then curls a hand around her jaw and pulls her lips to his.

Her brain short-circuits. All rational thought fizzling out, to be replaced by Jon’s warm, desperate kiss. She’d always figured him as a reserved kind of lover, as shy and modest in that as he is in all things. But the way he’s digging his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull and fisting her scrubs at the small of her back, dragging her closer; the way his tongue runs across the seam of her mouth, begging – she’s certain her approximation of him is entirely wrong.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, his thumb still gently brushing the line of her cheek, his forehead touching hers. She looks up at him through her lashes, and what she sees behind his eyes steals her breath even more than his kiss.

“I thought you knew,” he says, his voice low. Obviously, she did not. Obviously, she had no idea.

“I treat you differently,” he continues, “because you _are_ different. To me.”

 _Oh_.

His hand slips from her face, fingertips brushing over her skin, and he steps back. She’s too jumbled to do anything but watch him; too off-balance to ask him to stay, to even decide if she wants him to stay. He nods once, maybe to himself or maybe to her, turns and walks out of the lounge.

Her fingertips run along the line of her bottom lip. She’d only ever seriously thought about kissing Jon once – that night she’d cried in his arms, when he’d held onto her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. She’d felt like that again when he’d kissed her – like something exquisite, meant to be treasured and held close; something you never want to be apart from for all the days of your life.

She’d spent her whole childhood reading stories about love like that; the kind of love that made everything that came before it seem like a bread crumb, leading you here, to this time and place; to this person.

And that was her. For Jon, that was her.

The thought of it makes a laugh bubble out of her chest. And she feels so silly for not seeing it sooner; so caught up in her own frustration at him that she’d missed all the signs, missed the love behind his lingering gazes and soft smiles.

 _God_ , but she is an idiot.

 _So what are you waiting for then_ , her rushing thoughts demand to know, and she’s hurrying from the room before she even has a notion that her feet have moved.

He’s outside Trauma Four, eyes on a clipboard, talking to a nurse about whatever patient he’s just been in with, but when he looks up to hand over the chart, he sees her, standing there across the room.

For a minute, they simply stare at one another. The nurse beside him glances between them, then takes the chart from his hand with a small, knowing smile. He doesn’t even seem to realize, too busy watching Sansa with those unfathomable eyes of his. She swallows, nervous butterflies fluttering in her chest, then steels herself and takes the last steps toward him.

He waits for her, patient as ever; won’t move until she says one thing or another.

She smiles, soft and gentle and something tense eases in his eyes. Her expression has told him all he needs to know and he grins even before she speaks. She says the words anyway, because she wants him to hear the truth of it in her voice.

“You’re different to me, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
